


tonight, it's just fire alarms (and losing you)

by doomcake, Laipin



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Jim, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Medical Trauma, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laipin/pseuds/Laipin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually, it's Jim's fault. Just not this time.</p>
<p>{ fic + art }</p>
            </blockquote>





	tonight, it's just fire alarms (and losing you)

**Author's Note:**

> HI, I AM SORRY FOR THIS BLURB because it's probably longer than this fic, hahaha. FAIL.
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> I've been lurking in this fandom since just after the 2009 Trek movie, and I've been itching to contribute!! EXCEPT EVERYONE HERE IS SO AMAZINGLY TALENTED AND I AM ALWAYS IN AWE AND REALLY AM A GIANT-ASS CHICKEN and posting this is making me VERY NERVOUS (and I haven't actually written anything of substantial length in about a year and a half).
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> So I have this friend, her name is Lai and she is super adorable and awesome and I have the HONOR & PRIVILEGE of actually knowing her in person. She's also an incredible artist, and another avid McKirk fan!! We've been going back and forth and she's been drawing an awful lot of McKirk lately, which only fed my frenzied desire to try to write something. She asked me for a drawing prompt, so I gave her one--and added, "OH HEY I could write you a little scene for it too if you want! 8D"
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> ... Well, this isn't exactly a novel, but it's a little more than I originally bargained for. After a year's worth of fanfic rust (and a couple years' worth of writing a ton for work, SO NOT THE SAME), I was just happy to get ANYTHING out, especially in a single sitting on a work night!! I know it's short, and I know I skimped on the detail stuff like a lazy fiend, but HEY LOOK AT THE SHINY ART THAT'S TOTALLY WAY MORE AWESOME THAN MY FIC COULD POSSIBLY BE!!
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> |Db I hope you enjoy!
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> WRITING: doomcake/Rinja  
> ART: the ever-amazing Laipin/Lai  
> DISCLAIMER: Star Trek (the Reboot edition) belongs to Paramount and Bad Robot all other affiliates. I take no ownership of their characters or story, and definitely am not making money off this derivative work.  
> ALSO: The title comes from song lyrics found in "Death Valley" by Fall Out Boy. I also take no ownership for that either.

\--

Usually, James T. Kirk is his own worst enemy.  
  
Usually, Jim stirs up his own boiling pot of trouble. Like the time he flirted with the Caitian warlord’s unwed daughter. Or the time he went spelunking with no safety gear in a cave to go after an Ensign’s lost wedding ring. Or the time he went gallivanting through a jungle of plants he was (most assuredly) allergic to. And then there was that time with the hovercraft maneuver that started with, “Watch this, Bones!” and ended in a hover _chair_.  
  
Or how about the time Jim plunged himself into a warp core to save his ship? … Actually, Leonard would rather not think about that time. He still has nightmares of the moment he peeled back the flap of the body bag in sickbay that day, and it’s something he’d rather never visit again.  
  
Which is why he gets so damn angry at Jim whenever the errant Captain lands his smirking, daredevil ass back in a biobed.  
  
So when Leonard says, “Dammit, Jim!” within any of the confines of the _Enterprise_ —especially in the sickbay—he’s well within his rights to do so.  
  
Usually.  
  
“God _damn_ it, Jim, breathe! _Where is that fucking tri-ox compound?_ And he’s losing blood way too fast, get another unit going of B negative!”  
  
This is _not_ one of those times.  
  
“He’s hemorrhaging—Nurse Chapel! Get him prepped for surgery while I scrub up!”  
  
In fact, this is one of the few times where, unbelievably, it _isn’t_ Jim’s fault.  
  
“Doctor McCoy, he’s trying to come out of it!”  
  
“Dammit! Are you sure you calculated the dosage correctly?”  
  
“I think I did, sir, but he’s fighting it—”  
  
“B-Bones— _nnnhhhh!_ ”  
  
“Jim! Calm down, kid, I’ve got you.”  
  
“Sh-Shuttle…?”  
  
“You’re back on the _Enterprise_ , buddy. – Hey, don’t fight the drugs, just relax. We’ll get you fixed up in no time. I promise.”  
  
Leonard has never felt like more of a liar as those trusting blue eyes finally flutter shut.  
  
The _Enterprise_ rocks as it takes a hit from the terrorist vessel riding on its tail, red alert blaring, but Leonard simply rides it out, all focus on the patient in front of him.  
  
Jim’s really a mess this time, and it’s taking every bit of Leonard’s concentration not to break down as he watches Jim’s stats worsen. Instead, he channels that fear into sharp focus, relying on instinct and years of training as a trauma surgeon as he digs through Jim’s shredded insides, trying to piece back a puzzle of soft tissue and bone.  
  
He nearly fails to live up to his promise. In the chaos of battle, both inside medbay and outside, Jim codes four times, and—more than once—Leonard wonders if he’ll have to really let go this time. The red alert drowns out his orders, and the ship rocks and shudders violently beneath him, and yet he still can’t, so he doesn’t give up.  
  
And finally, after six hours of intense surgery, Jim stabilizes. Breathes on his own, heart beating on its own, all the pieces back to where they belong. They can focus on using dermal regenerators on the cuts and scrapes and burns scattered across Jim’s skin.  
  
The red alert klaxons wane, and suddenly it’s as if the outcomes of the battles for Jim and the _Enterprise_ are one and the same: victorious, but guarded.  
  
Leonard’s hands don’t start shaking when Jim is finally settled into an intensive care biobed with the privacy curtain pulled shut. They don’t shake as he rinses off in the medbay’s sonic shower, or when he changes into a fresh, unstained uniform, or when he updates the CMO’s log and the Captain’s medical files on his data PADD. Nor do they shake when he finally, _finally_ relieves himself of duty and settles into a chair he pulls into the privacy of the curtain surrounding Jim’s biobed to take vigil.  
  
 _God_ , he’s getting too old for this shit, he thinks, watching the stats above Jim’s head on the biobed’s sensor readout. Typically, he’d just allow his weariness to bleed into anger at Jim for being such a reckless son of a bitch, but truth be told, _nobody_ could have predicted that the terrorists would still patrol this far out in the Alpha Quadrant, just to pick a fight.  
  
Captain Kirk— _Jim_ had been visiting on the planet Bajor with a small away team, in an attempt to re-establish peace talks with the Bajorans. From Jim’s last transmission, it had been going rather well. Jim and his away team were en route via shuttlecraft back to the _Enterprise_ when it had nearly been shot out of orbit by a nearby, retrofitted Suliban Cabal ship that had also been orbiting Bajoran, and had suddenly decloaked and started firing without warning. The shuttle had come under heavy fire, but with the quick reflexes of the Bridge Crew and young Chekov’s quick calculations, they had managed to beam most of the shuttle crew back onto the _Enterprise_ before it was blasted to pieces.  
  
Jim was the last one to be beamed back alive, and had been the most extensively injured, sprawled and bleeding and gasping with rattling, harsh breaths as he rematerialized on the transporter pad.  
  
More images that Leonard doesn’t want to think about. Instead, he focuses on Jim’s pale face, the lines of a strong jaw with a healing cut along the sharpest edge, just visible under the oxygen mask strapped across Jim's face. He leans forward towards the bed and wraps his hand around Jim’s forearm, careful not to grip too tightly on any of the fresh scars there, cautious not to interfere with the IV lines leading out from the back of his hand.  
  
“Doctor McCoy?”  
  
Leonard quickly pulls his hands away from Jim as he straightens and turns to face the stolid, straight-backed figure looming at the edge of the privacy curtain.  
  
“Commander Spock,” he says by way of greeting. “I assume we’re no longer being shot at?”  
  
“The terrorist vessel has been subdued,” Spock confirms. “We have brought the vessel’s bridge crew and captain aboard for questioning; they are currently incarcerated in the brig.”  
  
“Great.” Leonard snorts, scowling. “Word of caution, Spock—if I were you, I wouldn’t let me anywhere near the brig,” he growls. “Don’t know what I might do if I set my sights on any of those bastards.”  
  
Spock seems unfazed by the thinly-veiled threat of wished harm against their prisoners. “Understood, Doctor.” He shifts, standing even straighter (if that’s possible?) to glance around Leonard, at the still form of the Captain. “May I inquire as to the Captain’s condition?”  
  
Leonard stands, motioning for Spock to enter. “Guarded, but alive,” he replies tiredly. “We’ll know more when he awakens.”  
  
He doesn’t tell Spock that their Captain nearly— _had_ ,essentially,died multiple times under his hands. Spock had been present the last time… well. Leonard may not have been there, but he knows the story. He doesn’t have the heart to add to that dark memory.  
  
“What is his prognosis for recovery?”  
  
Leonard sighs, because although Jim’s body has stabilized, they really won’t be able to discern the full extent of Jim’s mental status until he regains consciousness. Jim had gone dangerously long with little to no oxygen, between the rapidly-failing life support system on the shuttle and the damage done to Jim’s lungs. The mask over Jim's mouth and nose feeds him a high concentration of oxygen, along with a steam containing mild antibiotics to fight any potential internal infection.  
  
“The damage is repaired, but like I said, we won’t really know until he’s awake. At any rate, he’s in for a long recovery.”  
  
Spock’s expression seems to crumple, but it’s so quickly shuttered away behind an impassive façade that Leonard wonders if he imagined it. He opens his mouth to say something, but seems to think better of it.  
  
“Please keep me updated on his status, Doctor,” Spock says instead.  
  
“Of course, Commander.”  
  
Leonard turns back to the too-still patient on the bed behind him, settling back down into his chair.  
  
“Jim, kid, I swear one day you’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters.  
  
  
  
  
  
Hours later, and they're able to replace the oxygen mask with a nasal cannula. It's a small victory on the road to recovery, but Leonard will take it. He'll take every little victory he can get until Jim is awake again.  
  
  
  
  
  
Leonard jerks awake to the sound of a staccato biobed sensor, chirping a mild warning. Blinking grit out of his eyes, he tries to peer up at the monitor to find the source of the alert when his neck cracks loudly and painfully. With a grunt, he sits upright and twists to get the kinks out of his stiff back, and notes by the clock on the sensor readout that he’s been asleep for a few hours. As he wonders why none of the medical staff had made him wake up instead of letting him sprawl out across a critical patient’s legs like a sappy moron, his thoughts are interrupted as the alert chirps again.  
  
Snapping entirely awake and straight into doctor mode, he sees that the sensors are picking up that Jim is experiencing pain. With a muttered curse, he pulls himself upright and stalks outside the privacy curtain to find an analgesic that Jim isn’t allergic to. He passes Nurse Chapel on his way back from the supply cabinet, stopping long enough to reprimand her for letting him sleep too long.  
  
She simply scoffs and says, “Doctor, your patient was out of danger, and you needed the rest.”  
  
“Nurse—”  
  
“Besides, Jim told me not to wake you up. I can’t very well disobey the Captain’s orders now, can I?”  
  
“I’m the Chief Medical—” Her words finally register, and his tirade ends abruptly. He nearly drops the hypospray as he asks, “He was awake?” (He’d be more ashamed about how out of breath he sounds, but he’s so relieved he doesn’t care.)  
  
Chapel nods and smiles understandingly, patting Leonard’s arm gently. She gestures with her head back towards the privacy curtain, and doesn’t say another word as Leonard turns on his heels and rushes back behind the curtain.  
  
“Hey, Bones.” Jim’s voice is raw, and there are tension lines around his glassy blue eyes from pain, but he’s armed with that damned smirk (it may be a little wobbly) and it’s the most beautiful thing Leonard has seen in well over twenty four hours.  
  
“Kid,” is all Leonard can manage at first. Remembering the hypospray clutched in his hand, he holds it up and shakes it at Jim. “I brought you some of the good stuff.”  
  
Jim snorts, and then winces, blanching. “Good, because I think I need it.”  
  
“You? Agreeing to a hypospray?” Leonard presses it to Jim’s neck gently, only getting a half-hearted hiss out of his patient, before he sets the empty canister down on the tray next to Jim’s biobed. He presses a hand to Jim’s forehead in mock concern. “Hell must’ve frozen over, or you’re running a fever.”  
  
Before Leonard pulls his hand away, Jim reaches up, quicker than Leonard would expect with his injuries, and grabs his hand in both of his.  
  
Leonard doesn’t notice until that moment that his hand is shaking.  
  
“Bones,” Jim says, too-blue eyes piercing his.  
  
Leonard falters, caught between medicinal instinct and unprofessional compassion, and his doctor mode crumbles with that one _stupid, juvenile_ nickname. In that moment, he’s back to being _Jim’s Bones_. His knees wobble so badly that he has to grip the side of the biobed as he leans over, forehead resting on Jim’s warm, bare shoulder, and the trembling travels from his hands to his shoulders to his entire body. _Steadiest hands on the ship_ , and he can’t stop shaking. But even in his state, he remembers not to put too much pressure onto Jim’s healing injuries.  
  
Jim’s arms wrap slowly around Leonard’s back, one hand resting on the back of his head, fingers burying into the hair at the base of his neck. His cheek is warm against Bones' ear.  
  
“Hey, hey, it’s okay—see? I’m still alive, and Chapel says you did _awesome_ , and I’ll be back on my feet in no time. You kept your promise. It’s okay.” Jim’s voice is soothing despite the scratchy rawness, reverberating in his chest as his fingers rub gentle circles around the nape of Bones’ neck. Jim clears his throat painfully, and Bones finally starts to feel his nerves settle down, that uneasy knot of worry in his gut finally unraveling. “I’m sorry, Bones. I’m really sorry—I swear I didn’t mean to scare you so badly. I know you hate it when this kind of shit happens.”  
  
He snorts into Jim’s shoulder. “No shit.” Finally pulling himself upright, he places both hands on Jim’s shoulders—for emphasis, he tells himself, _not for balance_. He has to gather his ragged emotions back with a deep breath through his nose before he can meet Jim’s eyes. He presses his forehead against Jim’s. “But this time, Jim, I can honestly say it wasn’t your fault.”  
  
Jim almost looks relieved, but that also might be the so-called “good drugs” finally kicking in. “Glad t’hear it,” Jim slurs—yep, definitely the drugs—as his grin grows decidedly more lopsided and his eyelids start to droop.  
  
“Typical,” Bones says with a mock snort, but the gentle tone belies the sentiment. He pushes himself upright with one hand on the bed to steady himself, as he schools his mind back into professional mode and turns to go back to his desk so he can update the Captain’s medical file, and let Commander Spock know about the Captain’s progress. He also will need to check up on the status of the other shuttle patients, get a final report from the other attending nurses so he can file it with Starfleet, and—  
  
Before he turns to leave, Jim’s fingers brush against his wrist. Leonard turns back with a raised eyebrow as Jim looks up at him with eyes glassy under a half-hearted frown (Leonard supposes this is supposed to be Jim’s patented _I’m serious, Bones_ face, but the drugs coursing through his system are decidedly muffling the desired effect).  
  
“Bones—thank you,” he says, “for saving my life. … Again.” The lopsided grin is back.  
  
A snarky response dies on the tip of Leonard’s tongue as Jim’s eyelids flutter and finally close, breathing evening out in rest. Leonard smiles fondly, maybe just a little brokenly, as he gently pats Jim’s hand. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to keep you alive, Jimmy,” he whispers back instead.  
  
  
  



End file.
